


Like Sands Through the Hourglass

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Marvel, Marvel Ultimate Universe, Marvel Ultimates, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Background Violence, Domestic, Drinking, Earth-1610, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt Steve, Hurt Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Sexist Language, Ultimates - Freeform, brief sexual references, briefly sexist language, civilian deaths, mention of bottom Tony Stark, mention of top steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-05-31 14:51:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15121796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: It’s a hard mission for the Ultimates.  Luckily, neither Steve nor Tony are as alone as they used to be.





	Like Sands Through the Hourglass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sineala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/gifts).



> Written as a gift fic for [Sineala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala)’s birthday! Sorry it’s a few days late!

Steve didn’t get tired the same way most other people did. The serum had taken care of that. He wasn’t sure he even had any idea of what tiredness felt like for most people, for normal people—back before the serum he’d been so damned weak that on a bad day just walking to work, when he was lucky enough to have it, had been enough to exhaust him, and some days every breath had been a struggle, and he knew that wasn’t normal for most people. And since the serum—well, it took a lot to make him tired. He could go longer and harder than a normal man, even one who was well trained and athletic, and so he did. It felt like his duty to do the most that he could.

But the mission had been hard this time—Steve hadn’t been hurt himself, or not more than a couple scratches that were of no real consequence, but his uniform was stained with the blood of civilians (he could have saved more of them; he was sure of it, he knew he could have, but he’d taken a few hits, maybe stayed down too long—hadn’t coordinated the others as well as he could have if he’d stayed up on his damn feet, and then that building had come down) and his eyes felt gritty and thick, even kept closing on him on their way back in the quinjet as he tried to go over the mission in his mind, think what he could have done better, more efficiently, even though that was ridiculous; he wasn’t tired. Not really. Steve splashed cold water on his face in the team showers, slapped his face a few times, but he was still seeing the dead bodies littered through that collapsed building behind his eyes. He’d dug them out, one by one—they all had—helping even after emergency services had reached them. It was the least he, they, any of them, could do.

Normally he—well, he snuck looks at Tony in the team showers and tried not to, and tried not to seem like he was doing it even when he did, when he couldn’t help it. Tony didn’t always shower with them, of course, less than half the time, but on days that he did, it had always been hard for Steve not to look. He was so damned handsome, with his dramatic black, black hair, his golden skin (so smooth and even all over; was it an all-over tan? How did he get it like that?), the lean strength of him, the lush muscles of his thighs and rear, all decadent curves, his strong broad shoulders and slim waist and carefully groomed black hair on his chest and around his cock, which Steve had to admit he’d spent far too much time staring at, it was just so—so perfect, so pretty, so perfectly proportioned, hefty and thick enough that Steve had used to struggle not to let himself imagine it—how it would taste, how it would feel. He might have thought that after he’d actually—after he and Tony had actually done the deed, the fascination would wear off, maybe, that he’d feel it less once that particular itch had been scratched, but that hadn’t happened at all. Far from it; the fascination that Tony held for him had only grown. Tony might have been sick, but Steve knew how that went, and he was still so—he was so damn handsome, and he’d been so _good_ to Steve, so gentle, more gentle, more kind, than Steve had ever imagined from Tony Stark of all people, than he had any real right to expect.

But not tonight. Tonight he couldn’t even seem to get up the energy to do that, even if it was one of the rare occasions that Tony showered with the team. Steve was too—not tired, no, but his muscles burned, and his eyes felt gritty, thick, scratchy, his throat still hoarse and thick with the dust of collapsed buildings. Maybe—heartsore, though. Something like that, stupid as it sounded. The inside of his chest felt battered and bruised, like he’d been taking hits there instead of on his shield.

Steve was the last one in the showers, lingering after Barton left. He thought Tony had probably left, gone back to his own place, his luxurious penthouse, long ago. So it was a surprise when Tony’s voice came floating into the room, a little hoarse after hours of shouting, coordinating the team, but still low and husky, soft and dark as black velvet, curling and warm with knowledge so that it made Steve feel warm, something jolt in his stomach, his throat, his ears go hot, even with everything else weighting him down. “Surely you must be clean by now, darling,” Tony said, and it was drawling, teasing, but gently so, fond. Thank God it wasn’t too gentle, though, not pitying. Steve wasn’t sure he’d have stood that.

He grunted, pushed himself away from the mirror he’d been staring into, wiping his hands and tossing the towel into the hamper for dirty ones. “Sure,” he said.

Tony smiled at him and swung a passkey around by one finger. “I don’t suppose you’d like to come home with me, tonight?” he murmured, tilting his head down so he was looking up at Steve through his eyelashes, and even now that did something to Steve, twisting tight in his stomach and making something oddly warm throb in his chest. Just the idea—that he wouldn’t be alone, that he’d be with Tony, in his luxurious place, with Tony, who knew exactly what had happened, and who might be obnoxious but never acted like Steve was—was stupid for—

He swallowed hard. “Okay,” he said, looking down. He’d been doing something—about to—

“Much as it pains me to suggest it,” Tony said, “maybe you want to put a shirt on, stud?”

Steve felt himself flush. Right. Shirt. He grabbed the nearest t-shirt and tugged it on, then followed it with the button-down he’d left there earlier. His fingers fumbled over the buttons, and he hissed through his teeth with frustration at himself. Why was he being so goddamn clumsy? There was no excuse for it, none.

“Let me,” Tony said, and then he was right in front of him, gently taking Steve’s hands and moving them aside, before his quick, clever fingers made short work of doing up the rest of the buttons. Steve sighed, felt his hands drop and clench into fists, but then Tony was leaning in, fingertips surprisingly gentle on his jaw, pressing a quick kiss to the other side, and Steve was startled, sucked in his breath, enough that his fists relaxed despite himself. Tony’s hand dropped and his fingers curled around Steve’s and squeezed. “C’mon, big fella,” he said. “Let’s go on home.” And hopefully he wasn’t looking at Steve’s face as he turned around and sauntered off, waving the passkey in his hand again, because his eyes were suddenly stinging. Stupid, but Tony had said—he’d said _home_ , like Steve had a right to it, and Steve would have never thought that overly ostentatious, luxurious, _moneyed_ apartment would ever feel right to him, or like he belonged there, but—

He followed Tony, picking up his shield as he went.

Tony didn’t show any sign that the mission had been a hard one on the way over, or that he was even aware of Steve’s moodiness, or the way he kept drifting off, zoning out, losing himself in the memories of the battle until his throat felt thick and hard again and he felt himself firming his jaw instinctively, clenching his teeth, even though Tony’s eyes were tired, the skin around them tight with strain, too. He chattered all the way over, anyway, about things that didn’t even matter, and it was—good to let it wash over him, even if Steve didn’t do more than give a noncommittal grunt ever so often to keep him going. But Tony laid a hand on the small of Steve’s back in the elevator up, and even that small gesture had Steve’s eyes stinging. 

God, what was wrong with him? Why was he being such a goddamned disgrace?

Tony’s hand drifted up to the back of his neck and squeezed, and God, God, it felt good.

Steve followed Tony into the penthouse, as always, feeling a bit awkward, oversized and out of place. Tony gestured at him, a flippant, easy thing, and Steve eased the shield down, let it rest against the central glass table. Tony opened a cabinet and took out two glasses, then crossed to his liquor cabinet (should have expected that, Steve thought ruefully), and uncorked a crystal decanter. The smell of Scotch whiskey filled the room, and Tony poured it into both glasses before crossing back to Steve and holding one out to him with a small, lazy smile. “Drink up, Captain,” he said.

Steve took the glass but frowned at him. “You drink too much, Stark,” he said, and his voice came out sounding strange in his own ears, scratchy and oddly distant. He’d been meaning to say it for a long time, but he didn’t know why it had come out of him then. It probably wasn’t the right way to say it.

Tony’s smile twisted, grew a little more bitter, inward turning, and Steve’s heart gave a sad, tired lurch, because he’d been right, it hadn’t been the right way to say it. “All a matter of opinion,” he said. “I think I drink just enough.” He turned the glass idly in his hand, held it up and looked through it, then tossed it all back at once. Steve found himself following the line of his throat, the way it worked as he swallowed.

He sighed, and Tony smiled obliquely at him.

“But that’s not the point,” he said. “You need the drink, so take it.”

“I can’t get drunk,” Steve said, but he took a swallow of the whiskey anyway. Of course it was fine, finer than any other whiskey Steve had had in his life that hadn’t been provided by Tony Stark.

“That’s still not the point,” Tony said, then set down his glass, stepped forward and rested one hand on Steve’s shoulder. It felt warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. Tony smiled at him, again, and it was softer this time. Steve felt the tightly held emotions fray inside him, out of his grip, just a little, felt his face twist and his eyes sting, at Tony’s softness. Tony slid his hand up, rubbed his thumb against Steve’s neck. It felt so warm. Steve took a deep breath, tried to ignore how it shook, and swallowed the rest of his whiskey. It burned all the way down his throat.

Tony took the glass from him, making sure their fingers brushed, then set it aside, too, came back and put his hand back on Steve’s shoulder, before he leaned in and pressed a soft, wet, dragging kiss to Steve’s throat. He started, surprised, but Tony made a purring, hushing noise and brought his other hand up to rub at the back of Steve’s neck.

“Tony,” Steve said. 

“Shh, big boy,” Tony murmured. He rubbed his fingers in slow circles against the back of Steve’s neck a while longer, and God, it felt good, skimmed them up until they rasped against the short hairs at Steve’s neck, pressing more kisses along his jaw. Steve’s eyes fluttered closed despite himself. Tony’s mouth felt so warm and wet along his jaw, and sent little shudders of pleasure through Steve’s whole body. He kept his eyes shut tight because they were stinging again, and he didn’t want to embarrass himself.

Tony moved his hand down, caught one finger under the neckline of Steve’s shirt, against the top button, and used it to tug Steve’s head forward, down into a kiss. His lips were warm and soft and tasted of whiskey, and then his hand was on the back of Steve’s head, warm and strong and solid, a gentle but firm caress. Steve breathed out desperately into the kiss, and Tony’s lips moved over his, soft and knowing, like he understood somehow, understood how lost and exhausted Steve felt, his tongue gently stroking along Steve’s bottom lip, into his mouth, but soft and gentle all the same. Steve panted, felt himself sway into it, squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, and Tony skimmed his other hand down Steve’s back, along his spine, like he knew exactly—exactly what he needed.

They must have kissed for a long time. Steve stumbled into Tony, as the kiss grew hotter, heavier, and his hands came up to frame his face. Tony’s hand curled firmly at the back of his neck, cupped his head, scratched through the scruff of his short hair. When Tony finally pulled away, with a final soft suck on Steve’s bottom lip, Steve was panting. Tony pushed his head down to his shoulder, and Steve let him, let his hands fall to grip loosely at Tony’s shirt. Tony rubbed at the back of Steve’s shoulder, and they just stood there for a long time. Steve knew, distantly, that he was hard, his dick throbbing in suddenly too-tight trousers, but it felt very far away, like he was disconnected from his body.

They stood there for a long few moments, and then Tony said, “Hard mission today.”

Steve didn’t really respond, just grunted, but then he thought that he was the team leader, and he owed Tony better than that. “It didn’t all go as planned,” he said, and it came out sounding gruff and harsh, “and we had too many civilian casualties to be acceptable. But not as bad as some of 'em have gone.”

“Well, that’s true,” Tony said, in a ruefully cheerful tone. “There is that; we’ve done worse.” His fingers scratched gently against the nape of Steve’s neck. “But I think you took a lot of the worst of it, stud. I saw those scrapes on your chest. Looked nasty.”

Steve shrugged, thought about pulling away, but he wanted to do that so little that he ended up heaving out a sigh and staying put. “It’ll heal,” he said. The wounds were already itching, healing. 

“Well, I was hoping so,” Tony said, with a soft little laugh. “But I’d still like to tape them up for you. Think of it as humoring me, if you have to?” His fingers ran, gently, along Steve’s jaw, back up into his hair. Steve didn’t think he’d ever been touched like Tony touched him, gently, carefully, like he was something precious, but not something fragile. It wasn’t like the way people had touched him before the serum, like they were afraid he might break. It was completely different.

“Seems pointless,” Steve grunted. 

“So, like I said,” Tony said, and there was a smile in his voice. “Humor me.”

The very thought of it made Steve feel crawlingly self-conscious for a moment—Tony was the one who was sick, how could he ask him to patch up a few tiny scratches when Steve could heal anyway, would never be sick like Tony was, not anymore? And then he felt ashamed, too, because the idea did send a curl of warmth through him, of pleasure, that Tony wanted to. Because he did want that.

“Steven,” Tony said, a soft, velvet purr in his ear that made every inch of Steve’s skin want to shiver, then he brushed his lips down Steve’s jaw, pressed a soft kiss to Steve’s cheek that was barely pressure, mostly the warmth of his breath, “I want to.” His hands came down Steve’s sides, tugged his button-down out of his slacks, slid up along his under-shirt, and Steve did shiver that time.

Steve sighed. “Okay,” he said, opening his eyes. “Fine. If you’re going to be a pain about it.” Tony wasn’t, really, being a pain, and he felt immediately guilty for that, but Tony just pulled back enough to smile at him, wide and soft and bright, somehow, at the same time, and so Steve let it go, even as Tony pushed his hands away from unbuttoning his shirt and started to do it himself.

For all his reckless flamboyance and the way he often failed to take care of himself, Tony was quick and efficient when he put his mind to it, and Steve found himself sprawled on the couch, naked to his skivvies, with Tony perched on a footstool in front of him, in a matter of minutes, as Tony opened his first aid kit. He hissed in sympathy as soon as he saw Steve bare, reached out and laid his fingertips gently along the ragged gash in Steve’s side. It had stopped bleeding shortly before he’d left the showers, so Steve hadn’t bothered to put anything over it. “It’s not so bad, Stark,” Steve muttered, something in his chest pulling tight and almost painful at the sympathy, the pain, the wounded look in Tony’s eyes when he looked up at him again, as if Steve’s carelessness with his own injuries had hurt Tony somehow, in his heart. Steve suddenly almost didn’t feel like he deserved that look, the bleeding heart sympathy in those soft, long-lashed eyes. “Don’t be such a woman,” Steve said, and hated himself for it a moment later. People had always used to say that to him when he cared, and now he was taking that out on soft, bleeding-heart Tony Stark for being sweet to him? When he actually loved Tony’s softness, how much he cared?

Yeah, loved. God, he was such a fool.

But Tony just smiled. “As if the women on our team aren’t some of the most hard-headed about injuries of all of us?” he said. “Or do you mean to suggest the way I’ve played the woman for you in bed, darling?” He fluttered his eyelashes, moved his hips in an unfairly sinuous, suggestive gesture that made Steve think instantly of the way Tony had felt under him, Steve’s cock deep inside his body. 

“You’re so goddamn shameless,” Steve said, but it came out fond despite himself.

Tony winked. “Guilty as charged, o captain my captain,” he said, then reached up, took Steve’s chin in both his fingers, and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth, one that had Steve’s eyes fluttering closed again. “Now, this might hurt, lovely,” he murmured as he pulled away. “I know you’ll be stoic and clench your jaw and not let on and tell me you don’t even care, but I want you to know I feel badly for hurting you, yes? Good. Don’t argue, and shhh.” He pulled back with another gentle caress to Steve’s jaw, one that left his throat feeling oddly thick.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve muttered, and it came out thick and low and rough.

“But I am ridiculous, sweetheart,” Tony said, and, well, Steve didn’t see how he could argue with that. Tony made an art out of being ridiculous, until you didn’t want to laugh at him for it, you just admired him and his shamelessness. Even if he didn’t really feel shameless. You’d never be able to tell.

Steve had gotten in the habit of only dressing his wounds when they were bad enough, so it was a strange, unfamiliar feeling to have Tony’s hands on him for that reason alone. It was even stranger to feel someone who wasn’t a SHIELD medical tech or a hospital technician, clinical and uncaring, doing it, and strange to feel Tony’s hands on him in a way that was not supposed to feel sensuous or teasing, because Tony kept his hands gentle but efficient. He had a good touch for it, actually, Steve thought, and then that his surprise was unflattering to Tony; he shouldn’t be surprised, Tony was the kind of tech genius who built things with his own hands. Tony gently washed and bandaged the gash on his side, covered it with light dressings, did the same for his other wounds, like the long one on his thigh, teased shrapnel out of the one on his shoulder that Steve hadn’t noticed to pick out like he had the rest of it earlier, letting Steve rest his head on his shoulder while he did. Steve started to feel his mind slide out of awareness, into a strange, dull fugue he was familiar with, that he often felt after battle, but with Tony there, the scent of him, his cologne, in his nose, the warmth of him under Steve’s body, arms around him and hands on his back as he worked on his shoulder—it didn’t feel as disorienting, or as much like vertigo, as much like icing over. It felt like he was letting go of some burden when Tony finally washed the wound out with saline, covered it with salve and gauze, and taped it up.

Tony supported him with both hands on Steve’s shoulders, after that, levered him up, gently pushed him back against the couch, then leaned in, pressed another gentle kiss to his mouth. Steve sighed, let his eyes stay closed, let his mouth open for it as he leaned into it. He was so tired.

“You did a good job today, you know,” Tony murmured. “We didn’t work all that well as a team—it just didn’t gel the way it does some days—but you did good out there, Cap. You kept us together. It’s not your fault for taking those hits.”

Steve’s throat closed up, and he shook his head. His throat felt thick. “No,” he said. “I was slow. I—if I hadn’t gone down—”

“Nothing would have been different,” Tony said. “Trust your resident genius, okay? I’ve been going over it ever since it happened.”

“I’m not as smart as you,” Steve said, “but I know what—” 

“Of course you do,” Tony broke in. “But you’re losing objectivity, Cap. You’re just blaming yourself now. So trust me.”

“Like you don’t just blame _yourself_ ,” Steve said.

Tony laughed. “Guilty as charged,” he said, gently swabbing at the scrape on Steve’s forehead, before he started taping that one, too. “But it takes one to know one, doesn’t it?”

Steve didn’t like to admit it, but Tony had a point. He sighed, let his eyes stay closed. It felt—good, to have Tony’s strong, gentle hand dabbing coolness against his forehead. “Maybe so,” he finally allowed. 

“You know I’m right,” Tony said, sounding self-satisfied.

Steve gave a noncommittal noise, but he smiled, too. “You almost done?” he asked.

“Almost,” Tony said, and in his voice was a tenderness, a fondness, a wealth of care that Steve would never have imagined he’d ever have again, from anyone, let alone from Tony Stark.

When Tony was done, he put the first aid kit away, carefully tossing out the blood-stained scraps and pieces of trash, then came back with a big, soft robe Steve knew Tony must have bought for him, because it was blue and fit Steve too perfectly, but he thought maybe it would be too much if he called him on it. Make Tony articulate something maybe neither of them were ready for. He helped Steve into it, and Steve was feeling too exhausted, too loose and tired and easy, to fight him. It had been a long day, that was for sure. Tony was right about that. And after, Steve just let his head fall back onto Tony’s couch and closed his eyes. For a change, no dead bodies appeared behind his closed lids this time. Tony moved off somewhere, and when he reappeared and Steve turned his head to look, prying his tired eyes open, he saw him dressed in a robe and silky pajamas, too.

“It’s the middle of the day,” he said. 

“Not at all, _mon cher_ ,” Tony said, “it’s early evening.” He sat down beside Steve, curled his hand around the back of his neck again, and brought him in, pressed another kiss to his forehead. Despite everything, Steve found a smile tugging at his lips again. 

“And that makes a difference?” he said.

“Certainly,” Tony replied, and slid his arm around Steve’s shoulders. Steve sighed, because it felt good. He let his head lean against Tony’s. It surprised him when Tony waved his hand and his television flicked on, even more when Tony turned it to Steve’s favorite daytime soaps.

“Those aren’t on right now,” he said. His mind felt sluggish, like he was swimming through molasses.

“I need to teach you about the wonders of recorded television,” Tony said with a soft laugh.

“Oh, right,” Steve said. He didn’t think the TV in his apartment had that capability, but of course Tony’s did. He should have expected that. “But you don’t even like this show,” he added.

“Darling, I didn’t record them for me,” Tony said, fondly, and brushed his fingers lightly through Steve’s short hair at his hairline. “Now relax and watch your show.”

Steve thought maybe on another day he’d have pushed back, given Tony a hard time, maybe, because this was—it was too much, to think that Tony was just going to sit here with him and watch soap operas because Steve liked them. But then Tony slid his hand through Steve’s hair again, running his knuckles over his scalp, laughed and made a smart-aleck comment about the lead actress, and Steve smiled, let Tony pull his head down onto his shoulder.

Yeah, this wouldn’t be so bad. His body still felt sore, and his heart heavy. He’d hash out the mission with Tony, later, and maybe he could find some way to work out the twisted guilt in his gut, riding his shoulders. He’d probably wake up with nightmares. But Tony would be there then, too, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t be alone.

Steve let his head rest on Tony’s shoulder and smiled at the TV. He did feel a little better. Tony smiled, rested his head on Steve’s, and made another snarky crack, and Steve elbowed him in the side, and Tony laughed. When Steve looked up at him, he could see the strain easing around Tony’s eyes, so maybe, just maybe, this had been what Tony had needed, too.

That was good. It was good they could do that for each other. Good for the team, Steve thought, and then he thought, no, it was just good. Good for them.

Tony’s hand felt so good on the back of his neck. That was good, too. Steve put his hand down, covered Tony’s knee, and when he felt Tony startle and then, slowly, relax, he smiled.

Yeah, good.


End file.
